Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  I’m still shaking my head, the buzzing in my head growing louder and louder. “Had I already taken the manuscript?”

  “You knew where the manuscript was, but you hadn’t yet made the decision to steal it. It wasn’t until you caught us together that you decided to take it for your own. Before you left that day, you went back downstairs, stole the manuscript out of my closet, and took it with you to your new studio, where you proceeded to copy it, word for word. And when you were done, you sent it to your agent, and there was nothing either David or I could do about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he made even the slightest stink, you were going to spring news of our affair on David’s wife.”

  “He was married?”

  She nods. “A divorce would have crushed him financially. Back when he was writing The Damned, he wasn’t much better off money-wise than you were.” She raises her hand, wipes the tears from both cheeks. “Turns out his wife divorced him later on anyway when she finally did find out about me, but that was months after you and I broke apart.”

  “So I took the book and he never did anything about it?”

  “What the hell could he do? The Damned became a big success. He would have just appeared to be some crazy man crying plagiarism. Finally there was the matter of the story itself. The pyromaniac, Drew Brennen. He was based on you, what you went through. You might not have written The Damned, but in many ways, it was still your book.”

  “You deliberately gave him my story.”

  “Yes, I confided in him about your troubles like anyone would confide in a good friend or a lover. But I didn’t know he was going to write a novel based on them.”

  “But you told me he wanted me to look at it while it was still in progress. Why would he do that? Surely I’d recognize the character as me.”

  She nods her head like she’s been anticipating the question all along.

  “He was goading you. Baiting you. Asserting some kind of weird power over you that must have come in part from his sleeping with Reece Johnston’s wife. He knew deep down that you would never really look at the book. He knew that if it was indeed a good book, you would hate him even more.”

  “I didn’t look at it until I stole it?” I say like a question.

  “That’s right, Reece. You never did look at it, even though you had plenty of opportunities over the many months we conducted our affair right under your nose.” She starts to cry. “An affair I so deeply regret now.”

  “David had talent,” I say, working up a bitter smile. “He should have moved on and written more books.”

  “That’s true, of course. But something strange happened along the way. After the shock therapy, your writer’s block ended, and you were able to write four more novels. As for David, he found that as hard as he tried, he simply could not write another after The Damned. You destroyed his career, Reece. You betrayed him and he wanted nothing more than to destroy you. In his eyes, you were a heretic. You had betrayed the solemn oath he claims every author takes, whether he’s even aware of it or not. You must never steal another man’s words. Ever.”

  “So why did he wait so long to try and kill me?”

  “Because . . .” Her voice trails off and she begins to quietly weep.

  “Because why, Lisa?”

  I’m not sure how it happens, but the answer comes to me without her having to say the words. Comes to me not from my brain, but from my gut.

  “Anna,” I say.

  “Yes,” she cries. “Anna is David’s daughter.”

  “He was your lover while we were married. He fathered our daughter. Now I know why you gave him a key to the place, even after you split up and changed the locks.”

  In my head, I once more see myself holding little Anna only moments after she was born. I see her full head of hair and her face that bore a smile. But it can’t be a real memory. It has to be a fabricated memory. A figment of an overactive imagination. The imagination of a fiction writer. But then, that’s not exactly right either. I was there holding the newborn Anna. My dad was there too.

  “You led me to believe that Anna was my own,” I say, then start in on the awful math. “Anna was born in July of 2006, and I left that September after I caught you and David in bed. That means for the three months the three of us lived in this house, I naturally assumed Anna was my own, but in fact, she was David’s.”

  Lisa’s sobs fill the basement spaces. Until I work up the courage to ask her the only question left to ask.

  “Why did you take me back?”

  “I loved David. But I loved you more. That’s all there is to it.”

  “I’ve had some success, even with my own books. That kind of success eluded David.”

  “Yes, the successful part of you is attractive, I will admit. But I do love you with or without it. You must believe me.”

  “Even knowing what I’ve done? Even knowing my relationship with fire? You still loved me more than David?”

  She exhales, once again wipes her face dry of the tears that fall from red, swollen eyes.

  “You’re a writer, Reece. David was a writer. I can’t begin to understand what happens inside your head, inside your soul. All I know is that I have loved you both. Eventually I had to make a choice. I chose you. Fire and all. Craziness and all.”

  “And David died because of it. Because of me.”

  “No, Reece. David was a hair’s breadth from dying even before you and I got back together. He couldn’t go on if he couldn’t write. I would have left him even if you hadn’t come back into my life when your dad died. He’d become a tale of two men. On one hand he was still the sweet, quiet man who would lie down on the floor and play games with Anna for hours on end. But then there was the man who was starting to live out the storyline of The Damned, buying caskets, experimenting with fire, reading and rereading all your books.” She exhales, bitterly. “For Christ’s sakes, Reece, you saw what he did to my father.”

  “But still you gave him a key to the house, you still answered his calls, still texted with him, still Facebooked with him. You did it behind my back, because even though you love me and wanted to try again, you still couldn’t shake your feelings for him entirely, no matter how nuts he’d become. After all, you shared a strong bond, you two. Your daughter, Anna.”

  “Yes. It was a mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my days.”

  For a moment more we just stand there inside the basement, the manuscript of The Damned set out on the floor, every word on every page a lie connected to another lie. But also a lie based on the truth. My truth and my past.

  Lifting my head, I go to Lisa and face her. In my head I see her and David together, sitting in some nondescript restaurant, the room dark and candlelit. I see them sipping wine and I hear Lisa telling him everything about my obsession with fire, about how it came to be, and how it took control of me.

  Looking at her teary-eyed face, I don’t feel love for her, so much as sadness. Suddenly our second chance at being together, the prospect of spending my life with her, no longer seems as real as it did only four days ago when she left the house for tear duct surgery.

  I slip on past her.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  I stop, turn myself around to face her. “I’m going to do something I should have done years ago.”

  “And what is that exactly, Reece?”

  “I’m going to do what David asked me to do just before he burned your father to death. I’m going to tell the world the truth about The Damned.”

  Chapter 82

  Upstairs in the dining room, I boot up my laptop. I trigger the command that initiates the laptop video camera. As soon as I’m ready, I press “Play.” For a few seconds I just stare into the camera, as though I’m incapable of making words. But then, just like that, the words come to me. They come out of me like a heated
flood of emotions that have been building up for nearly an entire decade.

  “My name is Reece Johnston. I’m a best-selling author and I have a confession to make . . .”

  While the first viral video I made paints a picture of an evil David Bourenhem who was about to kill my family, this one is entirely different. In this video I tell the truth about The Damned, spilling it all out, and in doing so, I feel my body grow lighter than it’s felt in years. I admit to everything. About the writer’s block, about the desperation that resulted from it, about turning to the dark side, as it were, about becoming a heretic. I also reassure those who care that the four books that followed are indeed my own. However, even I must admit, the novels aren’t as good as The Damned and for that I have David Bourenhem to thank, even if he did steal my personal story of fire. Maybe I had no choice but to kill him in the defense of my family, but he is the father of my daughter. And while I still consider Anna my daughter as if she were my own, he will always be as much her biological creator as he was the true creator of The Damned.

  When the filming is done, I save the digitally videotaped message and post it on all the social media networks. I have no idea what will come of it. Or, if my career, such as it is, is now entirely ruined, and if . . . God forbid . . . I might actually have to seek out traditional employment. You know, get a real job. But in the end, I have come clean, and that’s what matters most.

  David Bourenhem was right.

  I did wrong when I took his manuscript and published it as my own. It’s a shame I killed his ability to write, and it’s a shame he had to die over it all in the end. But that’s what happened. In writing The Damned, that’s exactly what he became. And when Lisa became his illicit lover, and spilled my story to him, that’s what she, too, became.

  Maybe I am now also damned. Maybe one day I will burn in hellfire as my punishment. Maybe an eternal fire pit awaits us all. Or maybe Jesus wasn’t preaching fictions when, dying on the cross, he said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

  That’s what I prefer to believe. That in the very end, we will all be forgiven our trespasses.

  I look around the room. It occurs to me I haven’t seen my dad since the fire at the Reynoldses’ estate.

  “How’d I do, Dad?” I say to the empty dining room.

  The only response I get is the pitter-patter of paws on the floor. It’s Frankie. She looks up at me, her tail wagging, as if happy to see me sitting before my laptop. As she lowers herself comfortably onto the floor by my feet, her head resting on her paws, I place my hands on the keyboard, click open the word processor, and bring up a blank page.

  “Here we go, Frank,” I say.

  Staring into the infinite white space, I begin to type the opening words to a brand-new novel.

  The boy wakes to smoke and fire . . .

  Acknowledgments

  I write all my books by myself. Nobody helps me. Well, I’m lying, but then, that’s what I do for a living. That said, I’ve had a tremendous amount of help along the way on this novel. It’s impossible to name everyone who helped, but for sure I want to thank my editors at Thomas & Mercer, Kjersti Egerdahl and Alan Turkus, and also my marketing genius and undying supporter and friend, Jacque Ben-Zekry (you are the title master!). A big debt of gratitude goes to creative editor David Downing for working his magic on the manuscript and making me see not only the possibilities in my words but also in myself as a writer. I need to thank my Janey-on-the-spot editor Holly Lorincz for going through several drafts of this manuscript prior to my white-knuckled submission to my publisher. Also deserving of a major man-hug is my agent, Chip MacGregor. You’ve escaped New York, but somehow you still manage to seal the deal. Now comes the gray area where I’m going to forget a few people, but I would certainly be remiss without thanking Laura Roth, without whom this novel would not have been written (or The Remains, for that matter). I also want to thank my kids, Ava, Harrison, and Jack, for not being too upset with my long absences both when I’m home and away. Love you guys. Finally, I’m not going to name names, but I want to thank a few special people who have been there for me over the past nine years. You were a source of undying support, and you are not forgotten. Like I said, I’m not going to name names, but I’m quite certain you know who you are.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2013 Jessica Painter

  Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixteen novels, including The Innocent, Godchild, The Remains, Moonlight Falls, and The Shroud Key. A freelance photojournalist and traveler, he is also the author of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. He lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more, go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/.